


Guardian

by Cana_banana



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: No Spoilers, The Silmarillion References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 17:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12822522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cana_banana/pseuds/Cana_banana
Summary: A meeting between Wanderers





	1. The First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn meets a strange elf in the woods

The footsteps that crossed the floors of the woodland were not as quiet as those of an elf, yet not as harsh as those of dwarves, not even as those of men and especially not as wild as those of orcs. They were deliberate and cautious by many years of practice and only the attentive animals bothered to notice, and even these took little care to flee. It was not a harmful presence, for only those who knew the woods could walk here with such precision.

Had it been night, the flaunting of a dark cloak and a swinging sword at the hip may have been more unnerving than they were now, in the late sunshine of a cooling autumn night. The footsteps stopped for a few moments and a thump to the ground and a sigh confirmed that the wanderer had settled on a campground for the night.

 

Aragorn kneeled on the ground and brushed a few dry leaves out of the way to reveal the cold dirt underneath before deciding that it was good enough. He rose again and left his bag on the ground to roam near the edges of the little clearing he would call a campsite for the night, picking up a few dry pieces of firewood. Thankfully, the frost hadn’t quite settled yet, with the remainder of sunshine still grazing the ground.

He had been fortunate enough to catch a rabbit earlier that day, which was a fine meal for a Ranger. Not a large one, but perfectly adequate. He had already removed the arrow and wrapped the animal in a piece of fabric, which he had now put atop his pack until he could get a fire going.

Being a ranger was, to him, an enjoyable feat. It finally allowed him a chance to see all the lands he had only heard of in history books and witness struggles and glory with the people, alongside them, as opposed to from a distance. Some days were more eventful than others. Some days brought battles against orcs, protecting villagers, meeting with royalty - and some were more like this, the part you don’t hear in the grand stories, the simple, quiet, uneventful walking in-between. It really was the major part of any adventure, the walking.

He had been a ranger for some time now. Deep down he knew it was his way of avoiding what he knew lay before him eventually, or at least postpone it for some time; His heritage, his name, his destiny had been revealed to him and he spoke little in its favor, for it was not what he had liked to think himself becoming. This life was more for him, a free life, independent, with the choice to go where he wanted and when he wanted. He was not meant to sit in a citadel tower, ducked away with advisors and servants, piled with documents and royal concerns.

A sigh left his lips. It was likely inevitable but he liked to think he could avoid confronting it at all.

Deciding that he’d grabbed enough, Aragorn returned a few steps to the little cleared spot and arranged the firewood in a little structure which he’d discovered was the most efficient and easiest way to get it alight for cooking.

Sitting down, cross-legged, he pulled the rabbit into his lap and began to skin it. A task he had gotten used to and did mindlessly, while humming a little tune to himself.

Before long, the scent of cooked rabbit and steaming vegetables floated across the darkening forest, and the warm light of the sunset had been replaced by the equally warm, but of course, limited light of a fire.

Although Aragorn’s thoughts were drifting to other times, different times, new places and old, he was aware of his surroundings. These woods weren’t known to be particular treacherous, but it was common knowledge among all that awareness was the best way to stay safe.

Second after that, a strong sword - or bow-arm. But first, awareness.

 

While the meat was cooking, Aragorn stirred the pot cooking a few roots and various vegetables he’d come across. He had just about deemed his meal done when he heard rustling in the woods.

He looked up and, for the sake of precaution, reached for his sword. Waited, listened, until he heard it again. They were footsteps, and like his own, not quite as harsh as men but he recognized that they were not as soft as those of an elf trying to not be discovered. He could hear it without straining.

Slowly, the man rose and pulled his hood over his face, sword in hand.

“Who walks there?” He called.

No answer, but the footsteps stopped.

“Who approaches?” He demanded again, harsher, and raising his sword slightly as if to underline his point. Out in the wild, you had to assume that everyone was an enemy until otherwise proven.

A long silence

“A wanderer.” Came the answer and the voice was soft, quiet, but melodious - or it sounded like it could be.

“What is your business here?” Aragorn angled his head slightly and he now saw the shadow of a tall, thin frame, and like himself, his face was shadowed by a hood, but he held no weapon. The stranger raised his head slightly at the question, and the Ranger caught a pair of pale eyes reflecting the fire.

“Simply passing. I saw the fire.”

“What is your name?”

“I have none.”

 

Aragorn sighed in frustration at the cryptic answer and lowered his sword. He felt not threatened, but held it in his hand still; just in case.

“Remove your hood so I shall see your face.”

“Will you do the same?” The question wasn’t a threat, nor was it pleading. It was simply a question.

“Perhaps.”

 

The figure said nothing, but raised his hands slowly and pushed the hood back and though he still stood some distance from the fire, Aragorn saw a fair face, albeit with somewhat sunken features. Pale skin, and dark hair - if it was well-groomed, it would likely have been silky and soft but that was not the case. It was tied back in a messy braid which looked like it had not been opened and redone for many nights.  
His features were gentle and he looked as though a heavy sadness lingered upon him.

Slowly, but rather suddenly, he brought his arms outwards and Aragorn took a step back at the gesture, yet again aware. “Worry not, Ranger, I carry no weapon.” He declared solemnly and moved his cloak aside to reveal tattered, old garments and in an old belt hung a harp and he only carried a small bag with him. That, too, looked old and worn.

On one hand, Aragorn knew to be precarious of strangers and aware of the danger they posed. On the other, however, it was not uncommon for travelers and Rangers to come across one another and it was often the best type of alliance, even friendships, to have. The stranger watched him carefully and Aragorn decided to return the sentiment of trust and push his hood back to reveal his face. The newcomer did not react.

“You may join me by the fire, if you swear no harm. But I do warn you that I keep my weapons close at hand.” A clear state of boundaries, to which the stranger simply nodded and walked closer.

Aragorn sat back down and turned the rabbit which perhaps was slightly overdone by now, but still just fine for eating. Out the corner of his eye, he saw the man move closer, not entirely by the fire, but enough to feel its heat. He sat.

Now that he was closer, Aragorn could see how worn he looked, in body and in spirit. His shoulders were heavy and he looked tired, and like he had not eaten in a long time.

“I did not expect company, so I did not cook a large meal, but I will share with you what I have.” He was no fool, but he was a kind soul. He had always been told. He did not consider it a weakness of his, if anything just a characteristic allowing him to face and reach distant folk.

“I appreciate it.” The short-answered nature and quiet demeanor of the stranger left a strange atmosphere in the air.

“I do not often see wandering elves around these parts.”

The stranger looked up at him and properly held his eyes for the first time since his arrival, evaluating Aragorn carefully, to which the man just looked back at him. He had noticed quickly; He had grown up with them and knew them well. Though he had not seen his ears, no being other than an elf held such a fair a voice and walked to quietly on autumn leaves.

He still got no answer. “Where are you from?” He did not recognize him nor his garments as any of the three elven realms.

“I am a wanderer, as I said. I am not from here.”

“An elf with no home and no name. Peculiar.” The elf cracked a smile, so vague that if Aragorn hadn’t been paying attention and if the shadows cast from the fire hadn’t revealed it, he wouldn’t have known.

“I have both a name and a home, but both are old and has not been spoken for a long time.” The elf reached out to remove the pot from the heat and remove the vegetables from the water. Aragorn gave him a cup for him to pour the water into; No need to waste it just because vegetables had been boiled there.

“What of you, Ranger? Unless that is a name you prefer, do you have something else I may call you by?”

Aragorn paused in his ministrations of cutting the rabbit. “You may call me Strider.” He had long since learned to not use his real name.

“It is kind of you to invite me to join you, Strider.”

“Think nothing of it.”

The silence that fell was not an uncomfortable one. Aragorn filled an extra plate with some meat and a few vegetables for the stranger and as he reached across to receive it, the man noticed faint marks on the inside of his right palm.

“What happened to your hand?”

The elf did not look surprised at the question but took the place to his lap and was quiet for some time before answering, as if he had to find the precise words to describe it.

“I made a mistake, many years ago. This,” He turned his right palm upward and with the orange glow of the fire, it looked much worse than it likely was; As if his hand was on fire from an old, dying flame, “is the resulting consequence.”

“If it’s so long ago, how come it isn’t healed?” Aragorn was, not to forget, trained in the art of healing, nonetheless by one of, if not the best, master of the craft in all Middle Earth. Elven healing was far too superior for a burn wound to be unhealed after ‘many years’, unless, of course, it had not been taken care of at all.

The elf smiled down at his hand, but it was not a happy one and it looked more like a bitter grimace, “Some things aren’t supposed to heal, because if it heals, it is forgotten. I do not want to forget, so I wish not for it to heal.”

 _He sounds about as cryptic as Father_ , Aragorn thought with a shake of the head and continued eating without further remark.

They sat in this silence for a while. They finished eating (the elf ate less than Aragorn, even with the relatively small meal provided, and in spite of how thin he looked) and Aragorn added some more firewood to the slumbering flames.

While the man poked at the fire, the elf pulled his harp out and fiddled with it, pulling a little aimlessly at the strings and producing small, unknown melodies. He did not look as though he intended to play, but perhaps just to distract his hands. His eyes were glazed, as if he was off in a far distant memory.

Aragorn suspected it was unintentional when the stranger started humming a small tune and plucked away at the harp meanwhile. Not until then did Aragorn realize that truly, it was a fair and beautiful voice, although it sounded like his voice had gone unused for a long time.

_“There flying Elwing came to him,_

_and flame was in the darkness lit;_

_more bright than light of diamond the fire upon her carcanet._

_The Silmaril she bound on him_

_and crowned him with the living light_

_and dauntless then with burning brow_

_he turned his prow; and in the night_

_from Otherworld beyond the Sea_

_there strong and free a storm arose,_

_a wind of power in Tarmenel…”_

The voice faltered as if he realized he had started singing without meaning to. He had probably forgotten than he had company at all, and perhaps would not have remembered if Aragorn hadn’t, perhaps equally unintentionally, finished the lines.

 

_“by paths that seldom mortal goes_

_his boat it bore with biting breath_

_as might of death across the grey_

_and long-forsaken seas distressed:_

_from east to west he passed away.”_

The elf stopped pulling at the harp strings and looked up.

“The Song of Eärendil.” Aragorn stated, when he realized the stranger was watching him with an odd expression, “It’s a famous tale, and the song likewise known. I was always fond of it.”

“It is not a fairytale.” The elf stated, and his voice was quiet enough to barely be heard, had it not been for the silence of the woods. His gaze was averted.

Aragorn shrugged and smiled slightly under his scruffy stubble. “I know. But I suspect the song doesn’t speak the entire truth, neither does stories passed from generation to generation.”

“…Indeed.”

Aragorn didn’t feel up to rest when he was with a stranger. It was no offense to him, because at this point, Aragorn was less wary of him, but letting someone unfamiliar take watch while he slept seemed like tempting fate.  But, when he offered for the other to rest, he denied it, saying he did not feel the need to. It was not a surprise, all things considered - elves hardly needed to rest at all.

They talked a little into the night, about the state of the world as seen from the perspective of a wanderer. It offered good insight, to hear how other lands fared.

The elf showed no significant relation or emotion to anything, save for when Aragorn mentioned the Misty Mountains and the lands west of there, where he had spent much time. Then, the elven face softened and he listened, and although he said nothing, Aragorn suspected that he had some relation to people or places in Eriador. But when questioned, the elf just shook his head and repeated what he had already made clear; He had no home.

 

The moon was high when the elf rose from his seat on the ground, hooking the harp back into his belt. “I will take my leave. But I thank you, for the company,” The elf said gently, looking down at Aragorn, who remained sitting. The man nodded slowly, surprised that he wanted to leave this late and so soon, but all travelers had their own business and it was not for others to disturb. “..And the food.” He added, with a vague smile.

Aragorn returned it. “My pleasure. Thank you for the song.”

The smile remained for a little while as he gathered his cloak, and then, he met Aragorn’s eyes again with an unnervingly knowing look, as if he suddenly knew every secret held to him - And it occurred to Aragorn that he did not yet know who he was or how old he was.

The looked faded into something sadder, melancholic, “If I may, Ranger,” He said slowly, “You are troubled by your path, but you need not fear it as much as you do. Man is not as weak nor flawed as history makes it seem.” His face softened slightly, but Aragorn was too occupied by the very words, suddenly tense as a bowstring, to notice, “The blood of traitors only run in the veins of those who seek to do evil and if that is not your intention, it cannot touch you.” A pause, in which Aragorn slowly got to his feet, sword in hand, wary. But the stranger looked him in the eyes and there was no fright there; Suddenly, he seemed much wiser and less fragile.

“Be proud of your line, son of Arathorn, and do it proud. You’ll see the task that was once started to an end.”

“Who are you?” Aragorn almost interrupted him and raised his sword towards him, but the elf just smiled, and the man now felt unsettled by it - Yet, this time, it looked genuine.

“A guardian.” He said with a small shrug, turning on his heel and pulling his hood over his head in the process. “You’ll make a good king one day.”

He walked towards the shadows and Aragorn’s sword remained raised towards him but was rooted to the ground. For a reason unknown to him, he did not follow but remained at the dying fire, staring into the shadow where the elf had vanished.

Even in the silence of the woods, this time, he heard no footsteps.


	2. The Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn sees the strange elf two more times.

The encounter was never spoken of. Not because Aragorn was adamant on keeping it hidden, but because he had never considered bringing it up with anyone. In hindsight, perhaps he should have asked Lord Elrond about it, but by the time that he had the chance, it was no longer on his mind.

 

He did not see the strange elf until many years later. Even then, it had only been brief.

The War of the Ring had come to an end and this day had been particularly long. The coronation day; A day that Aragorn had dreaded for many years but in the recent ones, he had come to accept that it would be his fate. He was okay with it now, happy even, but nervous.

He stood before the mirror and let out a breath, overlooking his own garments for the 27th time that day.

“You look fine, love.” He turned at the sound of Arwen’s gentle, but amused voice in the doorway. He smiled at her.

“I am merely anxious.”

“I can tell.” She teased and walked to give him a light kiss. She was as fair as she had always been, but today, she wore a long, dark blue dress and jewels were woven in her hair, making her look like Elbereth herself. “Worry not, the people loves you. You will be a wonderful king.”

He smiled, but did not answer. He hoped she was right, because a lot depended on him and much faith had been put into him being able to maintain the role.

 

Legolas and Gimli both visited before the coronation. They were scarcely seen without each other these days and it was endlessly amusing to some, and utterly confusing to most. Legolas had taken to staying in Ithilien, taking pride in remaking the gardens and making the lands flourish yet again. Gimli, well, he insisted that if anyone were to overlook the stonework, it could be done by no other than a dwarf.

After many months of traveling alongside each other, it was strange for the three hunters to face each other as their titles as opposed to their weapons; The King of Gondor, the Prince of Mirkwood and the Heir of Durin. All three had laughed when they looked upon each other, in fancy, clean garments of many colors.

The Hobbits were all there, but only Frodo stuck his head in to greet Aragorn beforehand. They only spoke little, mostly in equal appreciation for the actions of the other.

 

The Coronation was performed by Gandalf and there was a large crowd; Really, half the city was trying to catch sight of the event. It helped to have Arwen by his side, Aragorn thought, and knowing that his companions were all on the nearby steps.

 

It was only once he was wearing the crown and stood facing the people that he caught sight of a face among the masses, one that he had seen before but only recognized because he happened to catch his eye.

Just like at their first meeting, a hood was pulled over most of his face, however as he was facing Aragorn, his face was visible. It was still sunken in and pale, possibly even more than last time, and unlike the people around him who were jumping and cheering, the elf stood still.

When he locked eyes with Aragorn, he smiled. It was a cryptic smile somehow, but it looked happy, for the moment that Aragorn caught it. And before he knew, his attention was brought to Arwen and then back out to the crowd and he could no longer find him.

 

 

The party lasted many days, but after this, everything settled into a daily routine. Legolas and Gimli helped oversee the rebuilding, for the time being, the hobbits were around but were preparing for the leave back to the Shire. The Rohirrim had gone home, save for Eowyn who stayed with Faramir yet (most knew that the two had bonded but it had not yet been made official).

Aragorn had his kingly duties to see to.

 

The day came at last when the last elvenkind took their leave from Middle Earth. Lord Elrond and the last few of his people had been to Gondor to congratulate him, but also to give their bittersweet goodbye.

It was hard for Arwen, for it was her family. But for Aragorn too, these were the people who had raised him for a long time and he was deeply saddened by their leave.

Lord Elrond and Erestor, Elronds chief advisor and librarian, had approached them later to inform that many items, among those a vast collection of books, remained in the now empty halls of Rivendell and they requested that whatever they wished to salvage, they could take. Aragorn promised to do so, and to preserve it, to keep the memory of the Elven history and language intact.

 

It took a long time to move it all, but when it finally was, a new section was built out in hall library to accommodate the new additions.

 

When he had time, Aragorn would something brush through these books, reading them to indeed remember and learn about the elven history. It was by chance that he came across the book.

It was an old one, as most of these books were. He found no author on the wrapped leather, nor on the yellowed pages, but began to read it. Only then did he discover the author, not by name, but by the sheer recognition of handwriting; He was almost certain that it was Lord Elrond’s writing.

At this, he was further intrigued and kept reading. It was mostly recollections of old stories, poems, both familiar and unknown to Aragorn, and even some sketches and maps.

Aragorn sipped the tea out of his cup and turned the page to find both pages almost entirely occupied by two separate sketches, both elves. The first was of a male with a wild look in his eyes; Uncharacteristically for elves, his skin was marred with scars. His hair was in a loose ponytail, messy and unruly as if he had been training. He was looking into the distance at something out of the pages reach.

Underneath was, in small, careful writing,

_Maedhros, First Son of Fëanor_

Aragorn made a little noise of surprise and acknowledgement. He knew of the sons of Fëanor and their deeds, he had read the story many times, but few were accompanied by images. If they were, they were somewhat detached.

He turned his head to look at the second page and almost dropped his cup, sputtering slightly.

For only the third time in his life, he found himself staring into the eyes of an elf with dark hair and sad eyes. He looked younger, his features were less sunken into his face, but unmistakably his; His hair was smooth and cared for, but it was the same. He was smiling but with the same sad smile, and looking down at his harp.

The King of Gondor let his eyes travel down the page to the text at the bottom.

_Maglor, Second Son of Fëanor_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The coronation does not follow the movie canon - I just kinda made it up along the way lol
> 
> Little addition, because I like the idea. If anyone is confused about Maglor watching over Aragorn; He fostered Elrond and his twin brother Elros (alongside Maedhros, questionably lmao). As a halfelf, Elrond chose to remain elven, while Elros chose to become Mortal and he became the first king of Numenor; AKA, Aragorn is the direct decendant of Maglor's foster son.   
> I like the idea of Maglor subtly watching out for Elrond, as well as Elros' decendants.   
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> A short story idea I was quite fond of - Might add a few more encounters to this if i ever feel up to it  
> The song is the Song of Eärendil and text is from there as well - That particular part is not my original writing.
> 
> Dedicated to my fave Estel :^)<3 (you know who you are!)


End file.
